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Step by Step/Issue 38
This is Issue #38 of ''Step by Step''. ''This is the second issue of '''Volume Seven'. Raw A love. The moon is full above Town Hall. The one-hundred year old building is as stiff as a mummy, the shadows of the night like its sarcophagus. Red Smith knows what this town has gone through—for the first years of his life, he'd broken his back and hands working in the fields. Out in the sun all day, with his brother Don Smith, they'd work that field from the wee morning hours till the afternoon. Then, if Pop had enough spare change, the two brothers would enjoy ice cream, pure white ice cream. Dairy fresh, too. None of that homogenized shit. Then it'd be back to the fields. The two would run back madly, screaming and jumping over fences to be there on time. On time was another of Pop's sayings for "if you're not here by the time the sun's at the sky's asscrack, I'll beat you til your butt cracks". "I never liked rookies." Red Smith puffed on a lengthy cigar before sitting upright in his chair. He's been here since he had Private Hughes on the radio. He saw the four most-wanted men in the state, too. Red saw them get beat up, too. He recognized Lyle Jackson and Nolan Brackenbury, too. "And not a day has gone by," he said. Nolan was still the troublemaker with an attitude. And Lyle was still the boy looking for trouble. Red Smith never got those two quite right. He knew how to identify a racist, a communist, a city slicker, and a hick. But not those two. When they had arrived to town last year, you know, asking for the price on Tom's head, he looked at them and looked puzzled. It had been a hot, dewy September morning. "We're here looking for some money," said Lyle. "Something," Nolan said. "As long as it don't bite." Red Smith knew it wasn't just about the money. This Lyle—the Wacko Jacko, like how the press was calling him—was not a man of money. He was a real man. A man who greeted shop keepers, smiled at people while he walked a street, and had a firm handshake. Red remembers the handshake like it was yesterday—two ups, one down, before saying, "I read about Tom. He's a very bad person." "He's a son of a shit." "A shit that's worth cash," Nolan said. The murder of Tom Gallenger was stressing for Red. If these two men were to be tried, he would make sure word of Tom never saw the light of day. He would go down with them, and that sounded bad. Real bad. But he could get rid of that stress quick, with a little help. To fight fire with fire, to kill a killer with a killer. He heard Carter Jameson and Hector Pacino making their way to his office. Red Smith took another long pull of his cigar, waved his hand around the flame till it died, and dropped the cigar into his breastpocket. He took a glass of wine from the corner of his desk, shook the wine, and drank. He was ready. His brother was in the room next door researching the Trouble Quartet. He had a walkie. So did Officer Wilson. Wilson was talking with Lyle. Soon Lyle is going to be with the others, all cooped up in the chicken coop. It would indeed be a quick job. A fast job, like how Tom had been. A fast buck, Red thought. Just as he heard the footsteps outside his office, he inspected his desk. It was nothing too pretty, littered with papers. In front of him was Carter's record, and Hector's. Both had been interviewed by Drake Wilson, after Malcolm, of course. The sergeant hadn't killed anybody, plus he was stubborn. Officer Olson, well, she was in the same boat. Gordon Black and Joseph? What could they do if they're crippled? These two boys, however, were different. Had to be different. And how Carter had acted out there? Classic psycho. And with the state in a total blackout? Red knew how politics works in situations like these, and it's going be a while before the actual military gets here. That gave him enough time to get rid of the evidence. Only had to keep an eye on the rest, like Malcolm. Just then, the door opened. By then, Red Smith had thrown his black and red flag into a drawer. ---- "Who are you?" That was the first question. Lyle Jackson sat in the interrogation room, a hot lamp jammed in his face. The man holding the lamp was Drake Wilson, the man in charge. It was eleven-something at night and the interrogation room smelled like a hot dumpster. It was only him and Wilson. He was drowsy—but he remembered first waking up in a cell, and that was before being hauled into this room. He thought he'd seen the other three in the nearby cells. Sweat popped over Lyle's brows. Exhausted, after all this time on the run, he's exhausted. Somehow, though, he was at peace. The room he was in was small and quaint. Nothing inside it moved besides a few flies and a roaring fan in the corner. Drake Wilson had been sure to turn the fan away from Lyle for the interview. The talk. The big boy's talk that is going to be like buying your own coffin and grave while you're still young. "It was a bad dream," Lyle said. "I had a really bad dream. But I'm good. I am good." "I don't want to know how you're feeling," Wilson said, "nor do I want to know your name. I know your name, Jackson. I know where you were born. I know that you've lived in Indiana all your life. I know that you're a cold-hearted sonofabitch, too." "You know all about me?" "I know you stole a box of pizza from a Domino's." "What are you trying to say? A guy like me don't got an appetite?" "I know you got into a fight at school, because, somebody did something to you." "That boy stole my lunch money." "Are you hungry, now, Jackson?" Lyle Jackson licked his lips. If he was hungry, he wasn't gonna show it. Sure, last time he'd eaten was at the church. But a man like him could go hungry for a while, as long as the sun would be yellow tomorrow. He licked his lips again. "My ma would make soup for me and my brother. When I'm hungry, I think about that. Don't need any food, mister." "Can you tell me about Earl?" "I killed him. God, forgive me, but I did." Drake Wilson laughed. He'd never had a suspect plead guilty like that. "I read that you blungeoned him with a crowbar. Why'd you do it? Why would a young guy like you do that?" "Out of disrespect, to be honest. You don't beat a young guy like me near to death and don't expect a comeback. You don't get to commit murder left and right while young guys like me get arrested for your wrongdoings. Also, I did beat him to death. Big Earl's case was a cold case, wasn't it? Well, get me down for it." "Mr. Jackson," Wilson said, choking on a chuckle, "you do realize that what you say can be used against you in court, right?" "Yeah?" Lyle Jackson smiled. "In what court? When? Hell, if you ain't realized yet, this state's in a state of emergency." "We have that—" "This state's in a state of disaster." "And do you see any of that here? No, because it is nowhere near here. We're out of the hotspot. Sometimes when there's accidents like these, like what happened during Katrina, crime hits the roof and flies it into the sky. We're helping out, we're picking up our share of pieces." "Then let me help out a little more," Lyle said. He looked past the man and lamp, to the roof. He mumbled something. "I did shoot those boys. Sam and George." "What the hell caused you to kill them?" "Suspicion, that was the motive!" "Malik?" "He started that shit with me!" "Brock Menster?" "I didn't do shit to him." Drake Wilson let go of the lamp. He produced a file from in front of him. He waved it in front of Lyle's face, pushing Lyle back into his seat. "The sergeant said different. Right now, you are charged with the deaths of Brock Menster and Frank, Sam and George Peterson, and Earl. And Malik. The governor told the mayor who told us that he wants you four kept here. You and the other three are charged with those five murders. You got that, Jackson?" "Frank?" "Ask your buddy, Brackenbury." "The sergeant? Malcolm told you?" "Yes, him." "You got me, Jackson? I'm condemning you to death." "Yessir, I realize that." He wasn't happy, but he wasn't sad. It felt like closure. Ironic, but closure. Knowing that the other half of the state was a total warzone kind of helped ease the pain. The pain in his cheekbones. The pain in his chest. The pain in his lungs. Knowing that the end was close, yet still far, helped as well. "Yessir, I do," he repeated. "Alright, glad we could get on the same page." The officer flicked the lamp off, left the table, and walked for the door. "I'll send the guards to escort you to your cell," he said. He went for the door knob, gently breathed out, and stopped. "The mayor wanted me to tell you because we have reason to believe that you're the mastermind behind this." "Behind what?" "You're the mastermind. The Wacko Jacko. For the past couple hours, you guys have been on the news. National news. The reporters are all, 'How could these four criminals have done so much damage'. I'm actually shocked, y'know. In a month's time, you guys killed about ten people, robbed half a dozen stores, and killed a military official." "I didn't rob a store. Nor did I rob six. Or kill eleven people." "You and your buddies. That's counting you and them. Brackenbury, Woods, and Johnson." "Four people," Lyle corrected and cracked a grin, "I killed four bad men. Not Brock. Not six. Not ten. Dennis couldn't even watch me kill Malik without crying." "Do you have any remorse?" "Shit," Lyle said. He sounded tired after all of this. "You gotta own up to your mistakes. I only did what I had to do. When you're under the kind of stress that I had, you only have two options. At the most. Then after it happens, only after it happens, you realize what was the best choice. I think Malik was ready to hurt me, kind of like I knew that Sam and George were ready to stab me in the back." "Why are you smiling?" "I'm going to see what He says," Lyle said, ignoring the question. He really is grinning. "But why, why are you still smiling?" Because you don't know about Tom. "I'm happy to see you leave," Lyle said, sitting upright in his chair now. "Hope I don't have to see you ever again, yeah. I'm also glad to have that weight off my shoulders. Dang, I feel like new." "You stay put for now," Wilson said and opened the door. "I'll go get Wilkes to unshackle your feet." ---- "I know who you men are," Red Smith formally said, the fat cigar sizzling in the breastpocket of his red shirt. Sitting in front of him are Jameson and Pacino, ex-Officer and Officer. One with a squeaky clean record, the other with a record so dirty it smelled like a plumber's gloves. One, that was born in Pennslyvania and worked his way into the enforcement of law, was now a soldier. A soldier, for now, that the press doesn't know almost killed four individuals. The person sitting next to him, the nervous Hector, had one death on his record. You never saw pure sadness until you've seen the sad eyes of Hector Pacino, who knows what he did to a teacher, and until now had kept it in the back of his mind. Working out in the country, you can see a lot of things. From the wee morning hours, and because money was to be made, till the night hours, you'd see nature at work. Out one day when he was a teenager, not much older than the Eugene kid who shot a man earlier today, the Smiths saw something unreal. A creature. I'm hungry. Red Smith looked at the grandfather clock behind the two while they walked. It gave intimidation and made people, even creatures, scared. A creature like Carter Jameson can be scared. Just like the vicious animal he saw looking at him from between the trees—it was no bobcat, no cotton-picking bobcat. It had these bright, red eyes that glowed like the red on the blackback of a ladybug. With broken hands, dirtied with soil, and a face of a boy who knew it was no bobcat's eyes, Red stared the creature dead-on. That was when it leapt out of the treeline. He'd fallen back, trying to walk backwards, and had landed with his ass in the crops. He was in the valley of potato weeds, kicking the dust up. The animal ran right to where he was, snarled, and jumped into the air. Like a cat, he thought now, but it was no bobcat. It landed on him, on his back because he'd turned to do an army-crawl, taking both his shoulders with its paws. It was a snarling, angry monkey on his back. But he didn't even have to scream for help. His father, who'd been sitting on the front porch taking a cigarette break like he always did before dinner, stood up with his rifle and shot it from afar. The bullet opened a hole in the animal's thigh, and it jumped right off. It limped away, and then collapsed in the potato weeds. For a moment, Red felt sympathty for it. The porchlights went alight. "Dad, you got the bobcat!" Donovan Smith shouted. "Same son of a buck," their father had muttered. "That's the same bobcat that attacked the Springer's ranch last week. Son, you good?" At first, Red Smith hadn't answered. When the creature, that was no darn bobcat, rose up on its feet, Red cried out loud like a darn ''baby. It was up, all the way up, and like a man it walked over to him. As if it was a robber, a stranger on his property, Red's father shot it again. It took the shot like a brick wall and kept coming. "Shoot him, again! Dad, shoot him!" "No bobcat!" Red Smith had shouted after his brother shouted. "This isn't a bobcat!" It didn't matter whether Red's father cared or not, since either way he shot the animal again. The animal flew back, the bullet punching into its ribs before bursting out the back. What made Red calm down a slight bit was that the thing fell on its wounded side. That meant, and he knew, that there was no exit now. But, while his pa and brother race down the field, the animal was still breathing. In the moonlight, which only gave a harsh shadow, the animal's chest was visible. It was open, bloody, and rising with each breath. The creature was looking right at him, with those red eyes, just like Carter Jameson when he walked into his office. ''That's a killer. "Hector," Red Smith said, feigning a smile. "I'm sorry, really. I won't need to talk with you, for a while. This talk was only meant for Corporal Jameson. I hope you can understand." Hector, surprise replacing the sadness in him, said, "Well, okay. Why did that guy, Wilson, tell me to come here, then? With Carter?" "It was a mistake," Red said. "Please, return to the motel with the other survivors. I believe my brother opened some rooms up for you all there. You know, while we get business down-packed. There's a lot to handle, a lot of—" "Save it, Mr. Mayor." Hector scoffed, brushing Carter's arm. "Can you believe this guy? Wasted my time. I'm hungry, see you man." And he left. I'm hungry. "Are you hungry, too, Mr. Jameson?" Red Smith took the cigar from his breastpocket, teasing Carter. "I can hardly taste the beans that I ate yesterday." "You all must've eaten something along the way." "We had water. But now we're here." Carter Jameson lifted his right brow, leaned to grab the cigar, and Red pulled it back. Bait for the monster. "Take that rag off your face when you talk," Red Smith said. "I can't." "Do it for me, yeah? Nobody except me and you are here." Red Smith gave Carter the cigar. "And with it you look like a terrorist. Carter Jameson, who now felt like Faceless Carter Jameson, reached for the kerchief. He pulled it down, ever so gently, like a half moon slowly falling down the sky. Then the thrill was back, and the horror attacked Red Smith's eyes. The complete lower half of Carter's face was red, splotchy, and infected. It was like looking at the wounded creature, shot to smithereens but still living. "How did this happen, son?" Red Smith took the cigar and the kerchief, dropping them on the desk. "Who did this to you? I should call for the clinic down the street, get you checked in." Then he thought it over. "Are you good, Carter?" "I'm all right," Carter said. "Don't you fucking tell anybody about this," he said, ripping off the gloves that were hiding his hands. His left arm, the bad arm, was a stump of mangled, rotting hot flesh. "One of those crazy things bit me. That's was more than a week ago. I feel fine, though. I feel fine." "Are you really fine, Carter?" Red Smith said. "This looks deadly to me. I'm going to go call the clinic, to check you in." "Don't do that," Carter said, just as Red expected. "Don't even thinking about it, or I'll—" "Shut that rancid mouth, son." Red Smith relaxed in his chair. This is his office, anyways. Like always. "Are you mad, son? Would you be mad at me for calling the nurse, telling her you had a boo-boo?" "I'll strangle you," Carter said. "Nobody has to know!" Red Smith smiled. This dog was riled up. Perfect. "Why be mad at me, Carter?" Red Smith stood up. Carter was four whole inches taller. "You should be mad at the people that were with you, out there. Lyle Jackson, Nolan Brackenbury, Dennis Johnson, and Derek. What was he calling you?" "He called me a bitch and I got mad," Carter said, then laughed. "But Hector hit him. I'm glad he did. I was about to kill the man." "Kill is a strong word," Red Smith said. "Who makes you mad enough to kill?" "Derek," Carter said, then thought. "And Lyle. Nolan, too. They're scum to me. Eugene, well, he lost a relative. What can I say, he had a lot of anger when he shot the man." Red Smith went to work. Three out of the four, maybe Dennis can be caught in the crossfire. "You'd like them to die? I can make that happen, Carter." "I'd like that." "I can give you a graveyard, too." "I'd like that a lot." Carter said, totally insane and talking like a sane man. The infection in his head was too strong. For Carter, the end was near just like the rabid bobcat when it attacked the Smith's farm. For both, there was only one end. Red Smith didn't know whether Carter would survive, let alone make it out of the police station after killing the Trouble Quartet. What he did know was that, if Carter had brains before being bitten, they were mashed potatoes now. Red Smith had gotten what he wanted, a dumb fish at the end of his fishing pole. Now all he had to do was reel it in. "Are we good, Carter? Are we friends?" "We are." "Good," Red Smith said. "I have a lot to tell you. Let's drink some wine." ---- Wayne did this. It was all the fault of a no-good liar named Wayne. The time that Lyle Jackson was shot many times and left for dead after church, if that had been Wayne's doing, Lyle wouldn't have disagreed. The reason he had been roughed up in the corridor of Summercreek was Wayne's fault. His near-death experience with Brock? The whole damn fire in Summercreek? "Wayne's fault," Lyle said, sitting on his bunkbed in the cell he'd be given. "It was the same morning we talked to Wayne, Nolan. We told him about our trade, and he ratted us out to Menster. How in the heck did he know we were even smuggling? Wanna know why, Nolan? Because we told him, straight-up. That's where we messed up. Probably, Wayne thought that Brock would've given him an award, or something. This shit's messed up. I trusted him." And so, that was the saying of a man behind bars. "Wayne was cool, though," Nolan said. "He didn't sound like a bad guy." "He ''ain't a bad person," Lyle said. "I can forgive him. I can forgive him for what he did to us. But think, because he tattle-tailed that morning or whatever, we're here now. That school was on fire, was it because of us? All those people that lost lives? That's ''bull. Alexander? Lilian, the paramedic? Eugene's sister, too? Hell, now that Wilson cop told me the four of us are charged with murders. That's plural. And they got me for Brock's death. I didn't kill him." "What happened?" That was Dennis. "The school was on fire and I was looking for the exit," Lyle said. "Crazies were all over the place. Left and right. Then I walked into the storage room, tried opening the door, and Brock found me. He went and said, "Won't start?", and he took me by the neck and started hitting me. Like I was a punk, man. Then he tried going out for the door, and the school's roof fell on him. I dragged him outside, and, I handcuffed him to some pipes." "Just like that?" Dennis again. "Then he screamed," Lyle said, grimacing. "It was the, man. It was the cry of a dying man, left behind." "But we didn't kill eleven people, like you said," Nolan said. "Sam, George, Earl, and Malik. I remember killing them. Tom? They never mentioned him. But then you got that Carter throwing accusations, saying I'' personally killed Eugene's sister. Strangled her? Nolan, you were there with me. You ''saw Carter walk to the nurse's office. Didn't you?" "Cross my heart, hope to die, I did." "That Carter also was with Lilian, when y'all found her." Lyle gave himself a neck massage. "This thing's rigged. If he killed them, he's pinning us for the killings." And then he looked at Derek, who was standing at the corner of the cell. It was a large cell, actually. "And you, ass-funk. I know you added your fair share of five murders." "What the hell you on about?" Derek started. "Pinning me, now? "Me and Nolan were in that school, and we never left. You killed five people. That drug dealer, too. That type of trouble catches up to you, Woods." "I'm no troubled man," Derek said. "It'd be in the best interest for the both of us if you stop insulting me." "He killed four people when he robbed a store," Dennis said. "Son of a bitch! Shut up, Johnson!" "He robbed the stores, too. I can't not say this, Scar. You robbed those stores, and then, in that last store, you got ambushed. You had no idea what you were doing because the police were outside the store. You shot four people." "And you?" Scarface gritted his teeth. "You? You were a bystander, man. I was trying to survive. I didn't want any contact, then this chaos struck. It ain't my fault!" "It's settled," Lyle said. "Now we know what we're up against. And why." "You hear that, D-boy?" Scarface said. "We're killers, except you. Now you know what you're up against." Lyle slowly stopped massaging his neck, looked up at Derek, and saw something. This man was the youngest here. Lyle Jackson stood up. "It don't matter. We're all equal here, and out there. I don't like your attitude, Woods. Never have." He took a step forward. "Stop making our situation worse, for Pete's sake!" Derek doubled down, mumbling, "Sorry." "Sorry don't bring the dead back," Lyle said. "I know that for a fact." "So Lyle," Nolan said. "What's the plan? You always have a plan." "We're getting out of here," Lyle said. "I won't let them keep us here over false charges." He walked by his bunk, not sitting back down, grabbing the bars. "They can try me when they decide to put me in front of a judge and jury for the right crimes. Then bring me to the right executioner. Then to the true Judge." "Sounds like a plan," Nolan said. "Crazy, but I like it." The jail is a twenty by twenty room, fit with five cells. The biggest one holds the Trouble Quartet at the end, facing the entry. To go down to the jail, there's a staircase that connects the real Department to the jail cell. The holding space for the baby chickens, Carter thought as he walked down the stairs. What's worse? He has a pistol in his right hand. Worse? Watch. "Hello!" Carter walked by the cells. He's full of dark glee, dark happiness. "If this is Hell, it's colder than I thought it'd be." Instantly, Dennis rolled underneath the bunk. Derek reached for the pistol that should have been at his hip, but has long since been confiscated. Nolan and Lyle just watched. While they watched, Carter hauled himself to their cell, whipping out a bundle of keys. He stuck the pistol's barrel between the bars. "Back off, not-friends." He unlocked the door after that. Then he really stuck the pistol in their faces. "Move it, move it," he grumbled, taking Nolan by the shoulder and tossing him out the cell. He pointed the gun at Lyle and said, "He's mine." "Help, help!" Dennis shouted, yelling for anybody working upstairs. "Someone, help!" "Oh, for crying out loud!" Carter Jameson backed out of the cell, throwing the door shut. He put the gun in Lyle's face. "Did you hear me? Your friend is mine." "Give him back." "I'm hungry, Jacko. I'm so hungry, just so hungry." That was when Lyle saw that Carter didn't have his gloves. Nor the kerchief. He was looking at a red face, raw and blooming with gangrene. It seems like Carter had taken a bite out of raw, bloody meat. Blood was on his cheeks, like acne. When Nolan was trying to get up, Carter turned his back and hit him in the back with the bottom of his boot. Nolan went flying into the floor. Carter went after him, gun held in the air, and kicked him into the cell bars. Nolan swung—missed. Carter took Nolan by his head, slamming into the bars. He held it there. "Do I know you?" "What? What do you mean?" "You tell me, Nolan. Is that even your name? Do you think I'm dumb? Huh, Nolan?" "You sound like a very smart guy," Nolan said. "That gun you have makes me say things." "Bullshit. It's not the gun. It's you four. What Red said was right. You hooligans are the problem. The reason why I have a fat-ass headache. It hurts! And it's 'cause of you!" "You're insane," Lyle Jackson said. "You're as insane now as you were when you killed Eugene's sister." "Shut up." "And Lilian." "Shut the hell up, nigger." "And now. You're insane. A total joke." "I'll kill you where you stand," Carter barked, before growling. It was the phlegm in his throat breaking. "Carter, you need help." That was Nolan. "You don't tell me what I need." Carter Jameson pressed the pistol into Nolan's neck. "If it weren't for the fact that I just had a lot of wine to drink, I'd—" "You'd do what?" "Kill you."" "Why?" "I have a graveyard now, Nolan. You'd be in my graveyard tomorrow." Carter pulled Nolan up, opened the cell's door, and threw him back in. The man could barely walk with a wounded ass, let alone stand up. The three others went to help him. "I'll be back, folks." In jail, time was ever-lasting. "When?" asked Dennis. "When I'm hungry." ---- =Issues= Category:Step by Step Category:Category:Step by Step Issues Category:Issues